


You’re Much, Too Much

by punto_y_coma



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Funny Face AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punto_y_coma/pseuds/punto_y_coma
Summary: Funny Face AU aka Dmitry is a paparazzi, Anya is a bookworm turned model, and Vlad pretends to be their agent to smuggle them into Paris Fashion Week. Prequel/continuation ofthis ficlet.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivyrobinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyrobinson/gifts), [takemetofantasyland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takemetofantasyland/gifts), [izloveshorses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izloveshorses/gifts).



Anya huffed as she dragged the last empty box down to the basement. Inventory week was the worst, she thought as she collapsed over the counter. At least now it was over and the shop was neat and organized, the books set up by genre, then by color. Beautiful.

The bell on the door chirped, making her start.

"I'm sorry, we're closed for the day!" Anya hollered, her soft soprano suddenly drowned by the voices of half a dozen people cramming themselves inside the shop.

"We can set the lights here, Vlad," a handsome, young man strutted inside, a camera hanging from his neck. "Hey, darling, we won't be long," he said to Anya without really looking at her.

"You can't be here," she replied, louder this time.

"Calm down, princess," he started pointing his camera around. "It's just a photoshoot."

"Hello, Miss," an older man walked towards her and extended his hand. "My name's Vlad Popov, that is Dmitry," he gestured at the rude photographer, "we're searching for a location for a photoshoot. It's for Malevsky, see?" he allowed her a moment to recognize the name, maybe gasp in shock but Anya stood still and unimpressed. "The fashion brand? No? Okay. Uh- We'll pay you!"

"Will you now?" Anya crossed her arms.

"Well, not in cash... But in publicity. Your lovely shop would be featured in international magazines..." Behind him, Dmitry was setting up lights near the travel section (Anya's favorite) with the help of three other women, all in bodycon dresses and shampoo commercial hair. The photographer fawned over one of the girls in that obnoxious way Anya had only seen in movies: "Yes! Lovely! The camera loves you, Marfa!"

Anya found the whole circus exasperating.

"Look, Mr Popov," she sighed. "I don't mean to be rude," she clenched her jaw, "not that your entourage has extended me that same consideration... But I was about to close. So, unless you have actual money to pay me for my time, you have to leave."

Seeing that they all ignored her, Anya went to unplug the lights and then open the door brusquely.

"Hey! Listen, you-" Dmitry complained and turned to her. Anya saw his perfect eyebrows frowning for only a second before softening into a boyish awestruck look, his mouth forming an "O". As if on autopilot, he took his camera and snapped a shot of her.

"Ugh," Anya groaned.

"No, we'll leave! Miss, I apologize," his voice had softened too, it was now mellow, coated in sugar, and Anya didn't trust it one bit. "Marfa, Polly, Dunya, let's wrap this up! Take the lights out to the van. I'll see you in a minute," he turned towards Anya. "I'm sorry if I made the wrong impression. Dmitry Sudayev," he bowed his head, "photographer, visionary, entrepreneur."

Anya contained a cackle, she had met many pseudointellectuals while working at the bookshop but this Dmitry guy might win at the most ridiculous (and good-looking) yet. This day was getting weirder and weirder.

"Anya, I work in this shop," she sighed in exasperation. "Well, Dmitry, it's been real," she opened the door even wider. Instead of walking out, Dmitry walked around her, sizing her up, taking in her slender frame, her waist-long hair, her thrifted men's slacks, her chunky boots, and her thick-framed glasses. Instead of shrinking under his gaze she stood taller and stared right back, silently judging the flashy patterns of his shirt and scarf, the tattered state of his leather jacket, his too-tight skinny jeans, and his perfectly coiffed hair. "Were you a vulture in your previous life?" she spat.

"Spunky, we can work with that," he muttered. "Vlad!" he called and then took him aside. "Can you see it?" Dmitry asked in a low voice, gesturing vaguely in her direction, taking out his camera and showing him the last shot. "I know she's not 'Instagram pretty' but-"

"No, I see it!"

"Anya, right?" Dmitry asked; she nodded, her brow was still furrowed as she pondered whether or not she should feel insulted at being called not-Instagram-pretty. "What is it that you want most in life? Anything that money can buy," his wide arm gestures reminded her of silent movie salesmen.

"Why do you care? It's late-"

"Humor me. Please," he added as an afterthought.

"And then you leave?"

"Sure," he said with a lopsided grin.

"Fine," her eyes turned briefly to the travel section and she bit her cheek. "I want to go to Paris," her voice was soft and her eyes bright.

"Paris, huh? That's... Perfect."

"Hmm?"

Dmitry handed her a magazine cutout, a public call to be the new face of Malevsky, a high end fashion brand. Anya's eyes skimmed the mile long prize list that included travel expenses for one model and one photographer, and lodging in Paris for the length of their contract.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"We think you might be it. The face of Malevsky. Our model," Vlad explained patiently.

"Do I look stupid?"

"Sorry, Miss?" Vlad asked.

"I said: Do I look stupid?" Anya snapped. "The old 'model scout' scam? I like my kidneys where they are, thanks. Please, leave."

"Anya, we've seen girls from all over Petersburg and there hasn't been one that has what you have. The camera sees it," he showed her the picture he had taken of her: the sunlight hitting her eyes just so, bringing out the blue in them; the stark contrast of light and dark that made her look like a 1920s starlet; and the steady way she was defying the observer with her stare alone... "You don't have to decide anything right now. You can look into the brand and the contest, see that they're legit and call me back," he handed her a piece of paper with his number and name scribbled on.

"Won't your friend be disappointed?" Anya asked looking at Marfa, leaning on the van, lighting a cigarette, and, in her mind, looking so much prettier than Anya ever had.

"Nah," Dmitry's handsome face looked somewhat somber for a second. "We did pay them for their time and this has been the easiest day's work they've had in a long time."

Anya looked closer and realized that one of the girls sported bruises on both her knees, disguised under her fishnets; the other one was chewing gum while she twisted her hair into a messy bun, putting the trail of hickies on her neck on display; Marfa was a little more discreet, hiding her bruised knuckles between strands of dark hair as she curled it thoughtlessly. They all looked as young as or even younger than Anya, more street wise, but still at ease in Vlad's and Dmitry's company.

"I'll think about it," Anya said at last.

"Great! I'll see you around," he waited for Vlad to walk out. "Oh, and Anya?"

"Yeah?"

He reached for her glasses and got so close that she thought he might kiss her. She gulped as he folded her glasses and tucked them safely in the pocket of her collared blouse.

"Lose the glasses," he quipped with a smile.

"Fuck off."

~

Anya considered herself a smart person. And yet, somehow, she found herself sitting in the bathroom of the bookshop, having her makeup done by Marfa, getting ready for a photoshoot with Dmitry.

"This is so dumb," she thought for the umpteenth time that day.

It was Paris, the idea of Paris. It was corny but she felt that it was where she was meant to be. She had read almost every book from the travel section that had anything related to the city. A piece of her belonged there, she was sure, and that was a certainty that an amnesiac couldn't ignore.

So she agreed to doing the photoshoot. There was nothing to lose; worst case scenario, she lost her one free afternoon playing dress up. Best case scenario... Well...

"How did you and Dmitry meet?" Anya asked Marfa. Having her makeup done felt weirdly intimate and she thought some light conversation might ease the tension a bit.

"It was ages ago, when we were kids. I only had my Ma and he only had his Father, we would keep each other company, our parents would help each other out, that sort of thing," Marfa had a rough voice but soft hands, she applied a layer of powder on Anya's skin with expertise. "I'm not doing anything crazy, by the way," she reassured Anya, "Dmitry does want you to keep that ingenue look."

Again, Anya didn't know whether to be offended or not.

"Where are your friends? Polly and Dunya, right?" she asked.

"It's late, they're probably getting ready for work at Theatre Street," Marfa smiled when she saw Anya rubbing her hands nervously. "Gee, don't be alarmed, we're sex workers not murderers."

Anya returned the smile and exhaled. "Sorry."

"For what it's worth, I hope you get it," Marfa said after a pause.

"Hmm?"

"Dmitry has come up with a million stupid ideas to get out of here... I hope this one sticks," Anya didn't know if Marfa meant the plan or the fake eyelash she was poking her eye with. Maybe both.

"Why is it so important for him to leave?" Anya had had her fair share of hunger and cold but she had made it out alive, and she liked Petersburg, despite everything.

"That's not for me to say," Marfa winked at her. "Okay, this is the best part," she took out yet another powder, shiny. "Highlighter, honey. It says Fenty on the box but it was like five euros so it's definitely a knock off..."

Anya giggled, not quite getting the joke but enjoying herself nevertheless. "I don't know much about makeup," she admitted softly.

"Your Ma didn't teach you? Or your big sister? You have little sister energy," Marfa joked.

"I don't remember," Anya had explained this so many times it was easy now. "I woke up in a hospital, all alone, blow to the head, no phone, no ID, no memories of anything before that."

"How old were you?" Marfa stopped dabbing her face and looked down at her, fascinated. No pity there just- curiosity and Anya loved her for it.

"The doctors said I was sixteen, maybe seventeen," Anya shrugged.

"Wow," Marfa pondered for a moment, her hands on her hips. "Wild."

"Yeah."

"Maybe it's not so bad, boys younger than that suck at kissing," she deadpanned and Anya laughed hard.

~

The photoshoot itself was uneventful. Dmitry insisted on doing it at the shop so that Anya was comfortable. She pretended to organize shelves, walk around the shop, and read while sitting on the counter. Dmitry sometimes intervened with small instructions to lift her chin and turn this or that way.

Vlad, Dmitry and Marfa left a couple of hours later, promising to call her as soon as they had news. Anya wasn't holding her breath. She had never been particularly lucky and this was a very long shot, no pun intended.

"Well, Dmitry, it's been real," she mumbled to herself as she closed up the shop.


	2. Chapter 2

Next time Anya saw Dmitry, he was lying on the pavement in front of the store, with a bloody nose, holding his stomach and groaning.

She had heard some commotion in the streets and, usually, she would have recoiled at the sound of a street fight, locking herself inside the bookshop until it passed, but she recognized the name one of the men was shouting.

"Dmitry, you fag, still roaming these streets?!"

Anya looked out the window and recognized the mop of brown hair of the guy being hit by three other men. She grabbed three of the fattest books they had (two dictionaries and one tome of the complete works of Leo Tolstoy) and ran up the stairs. The fight was happening right on her doorstep, which would have been a problem if she wasn't looking to get involved. However, as it was, she peeked from the window of the second floor and let go of the first book, knocking one of the guys out. The second one missed the head but hit the shoulder of another. The Tolstoy missed both but served to scare them off a little, to buy Anya a couple of minutes so that she could run down, drag Dmitry inside the shop and lock the door.

"Bitch! That fucking book dislocated my shoulder!" one shouted after her.

"There are more books where those came from, asshole!" she yelled as she closed the door.

Dmitry was in a sorry state, his back to a bookshelf, bruised and bloody and disoriented.

"Anya? How'd you- ? There were three of them..." he wiped a bit of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm smart," she replied from the bathroom, wetting toilet paper and a hand towel. She made a mental note of getting a first aid kit for the bookshop; the band-aids she kept in her bag would do nothing for Dmitry. She kneeled in front of him and wiped off the blood on his face. "I threw books at them."

He laughed and then grimaced and laughed again. "Didn't know you had it in you, bookworm."

"Shut up," she smiled despite herself.

"Thank you," Dmitry said, it was the first time that she had heard his voice devoid of playfulness or irony. "I mean it."

"Anytime," she stopped cleaning his face. "Those things they said about you. I get why you want to leave so bad."

"Ah! That!" Dmitry bit the inside of his cheek. "I have it better than most. I'm bi so technically, if I'd kept it in my pants I would have been fine but I accidentally-on-purpose slept with my best friend at the time and bad just keeps getting worse."

"I'm sorry," Anya said, took his hand and squeezed it a little. Dmitry shrugged and winced and laughed again; Anya felt her heart melt a little. "What were you doing here, anyway?"

"I wanted to tell you- We did it!"

"Did what?" Anya furrowed her brow and moved her glasses up her nose a bit. Dmitry had gone from soft and a little sad to blindly euphoric; it was worrying. Did he have a concussion?

"We won the Malevsky contest! We're going to Paris!"

~

Anya woke up in her lonely bedroom. She opened her eyes, slowly coming to the realization that what had happened the afternoon of the day before hadn't been some crazy dream. Dmitry had gotten into a fight in front of the bookstore; there were shards of broken glass and pages of torn and slushed dictionaries waiting to be swept up along with the dust of every day as proof. And then there was the fact that they were going to Paris. They were actually going to Paris. She was supposed to act like a model and attend a number of fashion events that she couldn't care less about but those were the least of her worries. They had only a few weeks to prepare. She needed to pack, to find someone that could take care of the bookstore while she was gone. Life was finally giving her all she wanted.

~

"You've outdone yourself, Ilya!" Dmitry adjusted the blazer, posing in front of the rusty, full-length mirror. The last time Dmitry had tried on the ensemble, it was still on that dark fabric tailors use to make mock-ups and patterns, chalk lines marking the place where lapels and pockets would be.

"I knew you'd like it!" Ilya smiled proudly, he was about the same age as Dmitry but shorter, blonder and quieter. Ilya was a tailor Dmitry went to semi-regularly whenever he needed to dress up for a con; he was expensive but worth every penny and Dmitry was especially keen on looking the part now that he was finally breaking free.

The blue glow of a phone screen shone underneath Dmitry's usual brown jacket, thrown carelessly over a chair. "Sorry, I need to take that," Dmitry excused himself; Ilya waved a hand and went inside a closet to retrieve some pocket square options. "Vlad?" he asked as he grabbed his phone.

"Guess again," a deep voice replied, soon accompanied by a stern face, dark eyes and dark hair.

"Gleb!" the man saluted from the other side of the screen. "What's up? How's Italy?"

"Classified," Gleb replied automatically.

"Shit! I meant the weather or if you'd finally asked someone out but you're really leaning into that Interpol, top-secret agent thing, huh? It's kind of hot," Dmitry mocked.

"Italy's been awfully sunny, if you must know," Gleb said. "And no, I've been working, not looking for a date."

"It will do you good," Dmitry teased. His face suddenly lit up with a mischievous glow. "Hey, what if we make it a dare? Next girl you like you ask out for coffee."

"I hate coffee. And we're not stupid teenagers anymore, Dmitry."

"Or ask her out for tea," he looked at Gleb with an arched eyebrow. "Are you a coward, Glebka?"

Gleb sighed. "Fine. I'll do it. Just to shut you up."

"Cool! So, what do you need, buddy?"

"We're looking for someone to authenticate some jewelry, diamonds, that kind of thing... Someone discreet," Gleb cleared his throat.

"And you said you knew the best," Dmitry smiled.

"Don't flatter yourself," Gleb clicked his tongue, "it's not a good look. But yes, would you? I'll be back home in two weeks."

"Uh- Two weeks? I think I might be away for a while..." Dmitry looked away, evading his gaze.

"What about Vlad? Is he available?"

"He's coming too, so..."

"What are you up to now, Dmitry?" Gleb squinted and then after a couple of seconds hid his face in his hand. "You know what? Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Plausible deniability and all that."

"You're no fun," Dmitry declared like it was the most damning insult. "At least let me show you my outfit for the job. You'll hate it."

Gleb saw his streetwise grin on the screen for only a second before it changed to the frontal camera. The reflection on the mirror showed a three piece suit, royal blue, tailored to perfection, with a red tie and a double breasted waistcoat; with Dmitry wearing the hell out of it.

"Flashy," Gleb managed to say after a while.

"It's fashion," Dmitry gloated, selecting one of the pocket squares Ilya had laid out for him and tucking it in with a flourish.

"Aren't you supposed to blend in during a con?" Gleb cocked his head.

"Yeah, sure, but I'm not going to some boring board meeting, we're talking about Paris Fashion Week..."

"Shhh! I told you, I don't want to know anything about the job," Gleb complained. After a couple of messy instances in which Gleb had tried to save Dmitry from himself, they had both agreed to keep Dmitry's status as an informant and their complicated friendship separate.

"Whatever," Dmitry raised his chin and fixed his hair. "Like you could know what fashion was if it bit you on the ass. What do you do when you go undercover?"

"We have a team that does disguises... Wardrobe, makeup," Gleb explained.

"That sounds fun," Dmitry looked at the time. "Hey, listen, I have to go. I'll let you know if I'm still in Saint Petersburg two weeks from now."

"Thanks."

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love <3  
> Come talk to me at my tumblr (aralisj) if you want :)


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